The Birthday Girl (38 page)

Mersiha's words were coming faster and faster, a torrent that he couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to.

'He took me outside. There were about twenty Serbs sitting on the ground, their hands tied behind them, and Stjepan's friends were standing around them. There were dead bodies everywhere, but I wasn't looking at them, I was looking at the faces of the men who were sitting on the ground. They were scared, like dogs. None of them would look me in the eye. I recognised three of them. I'd watched one of them rape my 318 STEPHEN LEATHER mother and do other stuff to her, soon after we'd arrived at the school. He'd made her say things while he was doing it to her, things about my father. He'd hit her and hit her until she said the things he wanted. Another of the men had laughed and watched. The third had done it to her, then he'd done it to me right afterwards, while another soldier forced her to watch. I pointed them out to Stjepan, and told them what they'd done.'

Mersiha looked down at Freeman's hand. She raised it to her cheek and pressed it against the flesh. It was wet from her tears.

'Stjepan gave me a knife. A big hunting knife. He didn't have to tell me what to do. There was no need. I stood behind the third man, the one who'd hurt my mother and me, and I grabbed his hair and I slit his throat the way the butcher used to kill his pigs. He was the first man I ever killed.' She sniffed softly. 'He was the first thing I'd ever killed. I'd never killed an animal or an insect and I wouldn't even go fishing with my father because I thought it was cruel. I killed him and then I killed the two other Serbs. I remember looking at the blood on my hands and being pleased. I wanted to do it again, I wanted to kill them all, but Stjepan said no. He said that it was only right if there was a reason. Does that make sense?'

Freeman didn't know what to say. 'It made sense to him, pumpkin.' His voice was barely a whisper.

'Stjepan said I had to go with him because there was no one else to look after me. That night he saw that three of my hairs were white. I'd never noticed them before. That's when he told me the story about my hair. One white hair for each killing. To remind me.' She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair as if sorting out a tangle. 'I'm sorry, Dad,' she said.

'You've nothing to be sorry for,' Freeman said.

'You don't understand,' she said, avoiding his eyes.

Freeman frowned, not sure what she meant. 'Is there something else? Something else you want to tell me?'

She shrugged. 'On the mountain today, you said that killing could never be justified.'

He stroked her hair and nudged it behind her ear. 'I was speaking as a father. You know how it works - do as I say, not THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 319 as I do. I was telling you what I thought was right. I didn't mean to condemn you for something over which you had no control.'

'But that's what you think, isn't it? You don't believe that killing is ever right. That's why you hated going shooting with Katherine's dad, isn't it?'

'If you're asking me do I abhor killing, the answer's yes. But if you're asking me if you did the right thing when Stjepan gave you the knife ... that I can't answer. I really can't. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through, the anger and hurt you must have felt. If I'd been you, maybe I'd have done the same thing. Maybe I'd have been so angry, that the only way I could have released it would have been to take revenge, to have killed the men responsible.'

'But I did wrong, didn't I?'

Freeman couldn't understand why she kept pushing him. It was as if she wanted to be condemned for what she'd done. 'I don't know, Mersiha. I'm not the ultimate judge of what's right and what's wrong.'

'Who is?'

'God, I suppose.'

Mersiha sneered. 'That's a cop-out, Dad, and you know it. There is no God. Just life and then death.'

'You can't say that.'

'Yes, I can. Oh yes, I can. If there was a God He wouldn't have let my mother suffer like she did, and He wouldn't have let my father die trying to help someone else. And if there is a God, I don't think He has any right to tell me what's right and what's wrong, not after what He allowed to happen in Bosnia.' The tears had stopped and now all he saw was anger in her eyes. 'You don't believe in God, either. You know you don't. You know that if there was a God He wouldn't have let Luke die the way He did. Suffer the children. Yeah, right. Fucking right.'

It was the first time Freeman had ever heard her swear, yet he didn't admonish her. He couldn't. He averted his eyes.

She put her hands up to her face. 'I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean that. Please, I'm sorry.' Freeman shook his head. 'Don't hate me, please don't hate me,' she said. She threw her hands around his neck and hugged him.

'I don't hate you, pumpkin. I love you more than anything in the world.'

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything.'

Freeman had a sudden intuition, a feeling that there was more she wanted to say. He smoothed her hair with the flat of his hand. 'I know it's painful, telling me what happened to you and to your parents, but by talking about it you'll eventually come to terms with it,' he said. 'It's not good to lock things away. When Luke died, I wouldn't talk about it for a long, long time. In fact, if anyone tried to talk about him I used to resent it, as if by speaking his name they were taking something away from me. Katherine imd I didn't talk about what had happened, not for the longest time. Even now, she doesn't like talking about it, even though I know she thinks about him constantly.' Mersiha didn't say anything but she squeezed him around the neck. Freeman stared out of the window as he spoke, at the stars millions of miles away. 'I think Katherine still blames me for his death. I've tried to get her to talk about it, but she just brushes me away. She says that she doesn't think it was my fault, that it was just a terrible accident, but I know that deep down she resents me for what happened. I wish she'd just let it out, then maybe I could try to make it better.' His voice began to shake and he forced himself to take several deep breaths. 'Silence makes it worse, pumpkin. Believe me.'

'It wasn't your fault, Dad.'

'Yes, it was. I let him take his seat belt off. I let him sit on my lap. If I hadn't done that, Luke would still be alive.'

'And maybe if Luke was still alive, I'd have died in the camp because you wouldn't have wanted me.'

Freeman was shocked by the statement. 'Oh no, don't ever think that,' he said. 'You've never been a replacement for Luke. Our love for you has nothing to do with losing him. When I told you that the day we were on the boat, I meant it.'

Mersiha nodded slowly. 'Okay,' she said. 'I'm sorry.'

'Katherine and I are now your mother and father, and we'll stand by you no matter what.' He looked at her expectantly, hoping that she'd tell him what else was on her mind. For a second it looked as if she was about to say something, but then THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 321 he saw the shutters come down behind her eyes. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to tell him just then. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands and smiled bravely.

'I feel better now,' she said. 'I'm glad you were here when I woke up.' She slid down under the quilt and smiled up at him.

Freeman kissed her on the forehead. 'Sleep well,' he whispered. She closed her eyes and snuggled down as if she didn't have a care in the world. Freeman sat looking at her. He wasn't fooled. She'd told him more about herself in one day than she had in the previous three years, but he was sure that she was still hiding something.

The sound of the two engines was mind-numbing, despite the noise-cancelling headset that Clive had given Katherine to wear. Her ears were sweating and it felt as if her head was in a vice. Clive had been right - it wasn't a pleasant way to travel. The small plane was constantly buffeted by pockets of turbulence and at times it felt as if she was on a roller-coaster. The headset crackled. 'Are you okay, Mrs Freeman?' he asked.

'I'm fine,' she answered.

Clive was twisting around in his seat while the co-pilot, a young Hispanic, handled the controls. 'It's just that you were looking a little green back there.'

'Well, first class it isn't,' she said with a smile.

'There's a sick-bag under the seat.'

'I'll be okay.'

'Don't be embarrassed, we all get airsick from time to time.'

Katherine nodded and Clive turned back to scan the instruments. It was pitch dark outside, though there were flashes of lightning far off to the left. Katherine looked down into the darkness below. It was impossible to tell if they were flying over fields, hills or water. She shuddered to think what would happen if anything went wrong and they had to land in the blackness. She looked at her watch for the thousandth time. They'd been 322 STEPHEN LEATHER in the air for five hours and had already landed once to refuel. Clive had said they were making good time and if the winds stayed favourable they'd arrive in Boulder shortly after dawn. He'd been about to file a flight plan for Denver when Katherine had told him that her ultimate destination was Estes Park. He'd suggested they land at Boulder because it was slightly closer, and because the landing fees would be considerably smaller than at the international airport.

The seat was cramped and uncomfortable and there was barely any leg-room. Her shoulders ached and she badly wanted to go to die lavatory. Clive had shown her the plastic container that could be used in an emergency, but there was no way on God's earth that she would ever dream of using it. Clive and the co-pilot were talking on the intercom but she couldn't hear anything. Clive was nodding towards the thunderstorm and the co-pilot made a small correction to the right. Katherine looked at die instruments, illuminated by soft orange lights, but she couldn't make any sense of them. Her eyes were hurting and she rubbed them with the backs of her hands. She hadn't eaten for more than twelve hours but she wasn't hungry. Her stomach was churning, partly from the rough ride but mainly because she was so worried about Tony and Mersiha. Utsyev would already have landed at Denver and would be on his way to Estes Park. Her one hope was that he wouldn't be able to speak to the estate agent who'd rented the cabin until their office opened. She still had a chance. She closed her eyes and prayed that she'd get there in time. She promised God anything, absolutely anything, if He'd just make sure that Tony and Mersiha were okay.

Freeman sat on a chair by Mersiha's bed and watched her sleep. She looked angelic with her eyes closed, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to protect her and take care of her. He could understand now why he had seen such hatred in her eyes when they'd first met. She must have hated anyone connected with the Serbs. He realised now how stupid he'd been to accept THE BIRTHDAY GIRL 323 Anderson's advice to try to sell their equipment to the Serbian forces. He could scarcely believe that he'd actually gone there to help the men who'd been responsible for the atrocities Mersiha had been talking about. At the time he'd convinced himself that the CRW equipment was defensive rather than offensive, but now looking back he knew that he'd let commercial considerations override his moral obligations. He was disgusted with himself for being connected in any way to the suffering of his adopted daughter. Mersiha had been constantly saying sorry, as if what had happened in Bosnia had been her fault, but in fact it was Freeman who should have been apologising.

Mersiha began snoring softly, and he could see from her unlined brow that she was sleeping peacefully. He crept out of her room and went to lie down on his own bed. Sleep eluded him and he lay staring up at the ceiling, determined that he would do whatever he could to make up for the suffering Mersiha had experienced. She would never be hurt again, he promised himself.

Utsyev slept fitfully for a couple of hours and then awoke with a raging thirst. He went to the bathroom and drank from the tap. His head ached as if he had the mother of all hangovers, but he knew that it wasn't the alcohol that was to blame. Sagalle had been right - it was the altitude that was hurting him. Utsyev couldn't understand why anyone would want to live above a thousand feet. The top of the Empire State Building was as high as he ever wanted to go.

He splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked terrible, and he knew it. His skin was tired, his eyes were bleary and his hair was dry and lifeless. He looked like a walking corpse. He grinned at the thought, and a mirthless skull sneered back at him from the mirror.

There was a timid knock on the door. Utsyev wrapped a towel around his waist before he answered it. It was Kiseleva, dressed in a red plaid shirt and blue jeans. He looked like a typical 324 STEPHEN LEATHER redneck, thought Utsyev, and the outfit suited him. Kiseleva held out a bag full of clothing. 'Sagalle dropped these off. And there are two Jeep Grand Cherokee V8s outside.'

'Guns?'

Kiseleva nodded. 'A really sweet Colt .357 Magnum Python, a Smith & Wesson, and a couple of SIG-Sauer P230s with silencers.'

'Good. Are the others here?'

'They're in my room. We ordered sandwiches from room service.'

Utsyev took the bag. 'I'll be there in half an hour. Then we leave. Make sure they're ready.' He closed the door in Kiseleva's face and shook his head in annoyance. Why did Kiseleva think he'd want to know about the catering arrangements?

He showered and shaved before changing into his tourist's outfit: a gingham check shirt as tasteless as the one Kiseleva had been wearing, a pair of stone-washed denim jeans, a Navy pea jacket and hiking boots. He studied his reflection in the mirror. It reminded him of how he used to dress, back in the Soviet Union; clothes worn for their function rather than their style. His headache had gotten worse and he massaged his temples with the palms of his hands, trying to squeeze out the pain. His stomach felt queasy and he was definitely short of breath. He went down the corridor to Kiseleva's room. They were all there, six of them, sitting on the king-size bed eating club sandwiches and drinking coffee like a group of duck-hunters waiting for first light. A suitcase lay on the floor and Kiseleva opened it to reveal the handguns and ammunition. Sagalle had thought of everything. Utsyev didn't like being in Carelli's debt. He had no choice because he carried no weight in Colorado, but he knew that a price would have to be paid eventually. Men like Carelli didn't do favours from the goodness of their hearts. They made loans, that was all, and the time would come when Utsyev would have to pay the man back, one way or another.